Paperwork
by Earwax
Summary: Post-finale. Wesley's dead. Lilah's his lawyer. The two chat over paperwork. WesLilah (sorta)


**Author's Notes:** Is it weird that one of the only nonslash AtS pairing I ever supported was Wes/Lilah?

Paperwork

(An Angel Fic)

He's sitting right across from me, not that I'd acknowledge it. If I'm the first to speak, he might think that I'd missed him. And I hadn't, not really. Actually, I sorta hate him. I hate him for loving _her_. It seems so juvenile; I'm jealous of another memory. It was always about her anyway. I never stood a chance. I know that from the first time we fucked and he called out _her_ name. It still hurts, ya know? Not that I'd admit it. I'm better than that. I refuse to raise my head. I refuse to make the first move. I just continue writing.

"Is this Hell?" His defeated, hollow voice pierces the very air.

I could feel his eyes boring into me. I can feel him wishing that I would turn into her. And feeling that, that is my eternal torment. It shouldn't bother me. I'm Lilah Morgan. I'm better than that. Better than love, better than pain, better than some Goddamn twig with no breasts.

I should probably answer his question, but I don't know why I bother. He doesn't care; not really. See, it doesn't matter what I say, it doesn't matter where we are. It's Hell because there is no Fred. His devotion to her is sickening. "No, Wes, this isn't Hell." I pause. Hell was an office building. Who've thought? "Well, not officially. It's kinda like an outlet for Hell. You're just here for the paperwork."

"Paperwork?" he asks dully.

"Yeah, finalizing your death and the events leading up to it on paper. No death is complete without a list of sins for you to hand to the people upstairs. Standard procedure. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"There's an actual list?" He sounds more amused than anything else. No doubt he finds something funny about dying and waking up in an office - my office, of all people - and basically being told that his death isn't complete without paperwork. Either that, or he's finally snapping.

"There's always a list," I say briskly, clicking my tongue. "You missed the Heaven cutoff when you shot Knox."

His voice is quiet, but his eyes blaze with a feral anger. "He deserved it for what he did to..."

"Murder's a sin, Wes. And you know where sinners go."

"Yes, I know," he whispers. "I'm damned. After all I've done, it still wasn't enough."

He suddenly seems fascinated with a fake plant resting on my desk. Yep, mental breakdown right around the corner. The tortured sound of his voice causes an unexpected wave of pity to go through me and, cursing myself, I look up. "You're not damned, Wesley. You also missed the Hell cutoff. You're going to Purgatory."

"What's the difference?"

I know Wesley can't be stupid enough to not know the difference between damnation and limbo, but I explain it anyway. "Hell is eternal. Purgatory is a quick seminar and free cup of coffee. That's what the list is for: to determine how long you're staying here before moving upstairs. You'll be with Cordelia floating on a fluffy cloud soon enough."

"And Fred?"

The desperate hope in his voice is nauseating. Had he died hoping to see my face? No. He had wanted Fred. He still wanted Fred. It was always about Fred. I don't know why that bothers me. Wait, yes I do. I grip my pen tighter. "There is no Fred."

"Of course not. I just thought - " He trails off here and I feel a cruel wave of triumph. The bastard should feel like crap. Illyria destroyed Fred. He knows that. To ask about a destroyed soul's well-being over one that is sitting right across from him - it bothers me. It shouldn't, but it does.

"Yeah, I know," I respond, going back to my paperwork. Fred. Fred. Fred. The man's obsessed. I don't say that, though I probably should. I want to scream at him. I want to make him bleed. I want to hurt him. I want to fuck him. And, somewhere deep inside, I want him to love me.

I know he does. On some level, he cares about me, but not like he loves his precious twig. She's his fucking world, his everything, and he died wanting her, craving her above all else. Her demise and Illyria's resurrection drove him to the brink of madness. He stopped caring when she died. Life is meaningless; death an empty joy, because there is no Fred. No Fred in Heaven. No Fred in Hell. No Fred in any of the dimensions in between.

That doesn't bother me. I'm glad the bitch is gone.

I lift my head again and examine the man in front of me. He didn't deserve any of it. He didn't deserve to lose every women he ever cared about. Wesley is the kind of guy who should have had three kids and a white picket fence in the suburbs. He's the kind of guy who deserves to be happy with a woman like Fred. But if I have learned anything it's that people don't always get what they deserve. Life's a spiteful bitch and death is nothing but a new form of pain. There's no such thing as an eternal reward. Not really. Not for people like us.

But I don't say any of that. I just press my lips together and grip my damn pen so tightly that I think it's going to break and splatter ink all over the damn paperwork.

I had spent my life clawing my way up the corporate ladder. All those years of working for the Senior Partners; had it been worth it? All it got me was a spot in Hell. A few hours a day on the torture racks and many more being a lawyer minion. Except for the torture part, my routine hasn't changed all that much from when I was alive. I get to play my delusion. I have a nice apartment overlooking the tar pits, great clothes, lots of alcohol. I finally have everything I ever wanted and all I had to do to get it was die. Had my head cut off and everything. I cover the gash with scarves, but I can never forget it's there. It throbs, it burns, it won't fucking close.

A small price to pay for my pretty things.

Wesley had wanted to save me. He had wanted to save me from myself. Take me by the hand and leadme over to the side of light. But I hadn't wanted to be saved. I liked my pretty things, I liked my life, and I loved the evil. He tried to be all fucking noble and burn my contract. Idiot. He should have known that Wolfram & Hart contracts don't burn.

It means something that he tried, even if I was only a distraction. He couldn't have Fred so he used me as a substitute. I spread my legs for him and let myself love him, but it hadn't been enough. It always came back to Fred. Even if that bitch, Cordelia, hadn't stabbed me and Angelus hadn't sucked me dry he still would have chosen Fred. Because Fred had been as pure as any virgin. She had been good and kind and just so gosh darn likable that no man in his right mind could have resisted her. Perfect Fred with her childlike manner and innocent smile. How could anyone not love that? Wesley never stood a chance.

And I wish that didn't bother me.

"And you, Lilah?" I hear him ask, "are you - well?"

I smile. He still cares. Too much heart, that was always his problem. "I'm in Hell, Wes, I'm doing just fine."

And silence descends upon us once again. To be honest, I'm not even writing anymore. My damn hand won't stop shaking. I hate paperwork, especially his paperwork. I'm convinced that I only got assigned to his case because the Senior Partners like to jerk me around. Or, maybe they just like screwing with Wesley. It's probably Wesley. They can't keep him like they keep me, so they're just getting in one last chuckle at our expense before the Powers That Be take their stupid Champion and grant him a seat next to Saint Cordy.

"I'm sorry," he says. Is that pity in his voice? Where does he get off pitying me? He's the one whose lost his fucking soul mate and got gutted like a damn fish. He doesn't get to pity me.

My smile wavers ever so slightly. He notices. "Sorry," I say, "is a useless word and, in case you've forgotten, useless words aren't in my vocabulary."

"No, I suppose not."

I fight the urge to reach over and stab the arrogant bastard with my pen. I'd probably get into trouble for it, but it's just so tempting. Way more tempting than what I do in reality; which is shoving the completed list in his face. "I need a signature."

I wish he would just sign it and get out, but he has to take time examining it; seeing that there are no loopholes. It's a freaking list. It's pretty straight forward. "Lilah," he begins hesitantly, "when does your contract expire?"

He catches me off guard. "Another few decades," I answer calmly.

"What then?"

"I get what I deserve." We both know what that is, so he doesn't press the issue.

Wesley sighs in that weary way of his. I used to think it was sexy. Now I find it annoying. I really wish he would shut up and leave. "Lilah..."

As he mentions my name for the third freaking time, I feel my self-control break. "Just sign the damn thing!"

He looks surprised. Probably because I'm the last person he thinks would ever shout at him. Cool, collected, catty Lilah Morgan. Whatever happened to her? She died. I died. What was the difference anymore? Hell must have screwed me up more than I give it credit for.

He signs it. "Is that all?"

"Yeah," I say quietly. "When you leave, go to the right until you hit room ninety. Ask for Sid. He's who, well... that's where you'll do your atonement thing until you get handed the white robes."

"How long will that take?"

I shrug. "A few days, a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, I don't know. Sid will tell you." He looks pensive. "Knox wasn't worth much. You won't be here long."

"Unlike you," he mutters thoughtlessly.

"Yeah, unlike me. Maybe if I had been a good, little girl and said my prayers and eaten my vegetables, things would have turned out different."

He winces, no doubt thinking of Fred. "Perhaps."

I hate him. I really do. Can he think about anyone but that damn twig for more than thirty seconds? Of course not. He's Wesley. And Wesley can't function without Fred. Needy, clingy son of a bitch that he is.

"Bastard," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Take the damn paperwork and get out."

"Lilah, I - " He trails off yet again. The sympathy is still in his voice. I swear, I'm this close to leaning over and choking him. It won't do much good, he is dead after all, but it would sure be satisfying.

I know what he wants. He doesn't want to go without a proper goodbye. Sentimentality, I suppose. Old times and all that. How sweet. I'd actually be grateful if I didn't already know he's only giving me the time of day because there's no Fred past my door. If Fred had been waiting in Heaven, Wesley would have run out of here without giving me a second glance.

"Lilah," he whispers again. I really wish he would stop saying my name. Doesn't he know how much it fucking hurts? He looks at me so sadly, so fucking tenderly that I want to peck out his eyes. Or kiss him. It's really a toss up.

"You don't have to say anything, Wes." I stand up. He does the same, grasping at the papers.

We stand there staring at each other for what feels like an ice age. "Goodbye, Lilah," he finally says.

I force a smile. "See ya around, Wes." He starts to leave. I almost crack, I really do. The lump in my throat is getting bigger and it's better to let him leave before I say something I'll regret. His hand is on the doorknob when I open my Goddamn mouth again. "Wesley," I say. I barely remember calling for him.

He turns and I freeze. I'm this close to saying, "Forget it," but something stops me. Perhaps it's the Senior Partners finally getting in their chuckle, but it's probably the forces of Hell completing my torment. Maybe I'm just weak.

"My whole life..." I swallow. Dammit, why is this so hard?" You were the only person besides myself that I ever gave a damn about." I pause, waiting for his response. He doesn't say anything. Bastard. "Not that that means much to you, lover." I try not to sound bitter, but I can't quite pull it off.

"It means a great deal." He's not lying. I can see that. A part of him just wishes that those words were coming out of Fred's mouth.

"Not as much as it should," I accuse.

"No, I suppose not." He starts to take a step towards me, but thinks better of it. Wise move. "Goodbye, Lilah."

It's only after he is gone that I dare myself to speak. "Bye, Wesley." Dammit, I've got fluid leaking from my eyes. That's crying, right? Why the fuck am I crying? I realize that I'm still clutching my pen. Angrily, I throw it against the wall.

I hate him so fucking much. Why do I have to love him more?


End file.
